Photo of me taken by my brother. June 2020

In order for a thing to disappear, it first must have appeared. This, it turns out, is the good news. I am in the middle of all kinds of fading. My brother is slowly receding back to his beginnings, as dementia exacts its terrible measure of destruction. He is with me, in body and in soul, even as his mind lets go of the details of this life, of his life, of our lives. His infinitely cheerful spirit remains available. He talks of tall trees, Adirondack chairs, the old BB gun target. I remember now for him, and for me. His appearance in my life over 64 years ago, and the deep cache of stories gathered up from then until now, are protected from evaporating. I remember.

Life as I knew it is slowly retreating as this pandemic extends with no discernable end in sight. It too has relentlessly taken away the familiar; the ways I moved thru my days, the plans I made, the people I visited, the work I undertook. In the reality of what is missing, I look to stories of “before” to forge a path forward. I remember.

I ask myself more often, now that I am older, where time has gone. I have lived far more years than the years I will live into. Time is accelerating and precious and fleeting. The stories still accumulate. I am remembering.

Remembering is my bulwark against disappearance, my own and those whom I love. Stories are the fabric of my life. Telling them is my work, now and for as long I can remember.